


The Shadow of Our Burden Behind Us

by Cinaed



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Character Death Fix, Developing Relationship, F/M, Families of Choice, Gardens & Gardening, Het, POV Alternating, Pontmercying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fantine is introduced to another patient, a Monsieur Pontmercy, at the Hôpital de l'Hotel-Dieu, she does not know quite what to make of him. The feeling is mutual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadow of Our Burden Behind Us

**Author's Note:**

> I would blame someone for this, but for once I talked myself into writing this because I have way too many feelings about Georges and Fantine and parallels and both of them getting to live and be reunited with their children. Also please excuse my cursory research of botany and flowers. 
> 
> The first few chapters will be at the general audiences and teen rating, but the latter chapters will contain explicit sex scenes.

“Hope is like the sun, which as we journey toward it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us.” –Samuel Smiles

 

* * *

 

 

The fourth autumn at the convent brought with it a cough that settled into Fantine's chest and lingered despite the sisters' efforts. Each coughing fit left her shaken; they reminded her too much of Montreuil-sur-Mer, where each struggling breath had been a determined effort to survive one more hour so that she might see Cosette again. 

She watched concern deepen the lines on Valjean's face and felt the fear in the desperately tight grip of Cosette's embrace. Even Father Fauchelevent, who had not witnessed her first illness, grew quieter and quieter as the days went on, his usual cheerfulness giving way to worry. 

"I have written to the Hôpital de l'Hotel-Dieu," Valjean said gently one evening after Fantine had interrupted supper with another coughing fit. He hesitated, and then took her hand in his. "A doctor there has a new treatment he believes will help." 

Fantine did not love this convent with its grim-faced nuns and forbidding silences and restrictive rules, but she discovered now that she loved even less the idea of venturing outside its walls and facing the world again. She had not gone often outside the walls, except occasionally when she would accompany Father Fauchelevent to buy and surprise Cosette and Valjean with gifts. She opened her mouth to protest, and then thought of Cosette's beloved face, pinched with unhappiness whenever Fantine coughed.

"When do I leave?" she asked, and nodded when Valjean said, "Tomorrow morning, if you are willing."  

 

* * *

 

 

It was at Marius's insistence that Georges recuperated at the Hôpital de l'Hotel-Dieu.

He did not wish to be so far from his garden, worried for the state of the bulbs he had planted only a week before his illness came upon him. He fretted especially over the  _tulipa keizerskroon_  and his hybrids. Nevertheless, the hospital was within walking distance for Marius, which meant more opportunities to visit, and the abbé had said that he would tend the garden. Georges must content himself with the abbé's promise. 

Besides, all his concerns vanished whenever Marius visited. Most days it was almost too much, how happy Georges felt. Sometimes he found himself wondering if this was Heaven, but he knew that if he were dead, then Eléonore would be here as well. Still, even when he had watched Marius during Mass, he had not imagined this: Marius's earnest and loving regard and the hours spent in discussion of Marius's mother, their lives before and during the separation, everything they could think of save for Marius's grandfather. This single exception as a topic of conversation was on the doctor's orders, for the news that Marius had never received a single letter had brought on a spell that had left Georges insensible, Marius distraught, and the doctor grim. 

Georges had been at the hospital for a week when the chill of autumn gave way to an unexpectedly warm day. Sister Benedict smiled at him as she took away his empty plate. "I know you have been missing your garden, monsieur. Perhaps seeing ours will help."

Georges suspected that it would only make him more homesick for his own flowers, but he couldn't say so while the sister smiled at him and produced as though from thin air a straw hat to protect him from the sun. "Thank you," he said instead, meekly. With her assistance he was seated in his wheelchair and taken out to the garden.

The hospital garden was mostly herbs, but Georges smiled at the sight of chrysanthemums and late-blooming hollyhock. The flowers were bright and colorful against the browns and dark greens of the rest of the garden. Other patients and sisters had apparently had similar thoughts to Sister Benedict's, for there were other wheelchairs positioned along the garden paths.

They had just selected their spot near the hollyhock when another sister approached. "Sister Benedict," she said with an apologetic, anxious smile. She dropped her voice to a whisper, but not before Georges caught the muttered name of a particularly demanding patient. 

"Will you be all right alone, Monsieur Pontmercy?" Sister Benedict asked, turning to him. "I need to attend to this, but it will only take a few minutes."

"Yes," he assured her. When she frowned a little, he added hastily, "If I need anything, there are other  sisters nearby." Already the cheerful colors were doing their work; he felt almost as calm and content as if Marius were visiting. He did not wish to return to his room, his time in the garden cut short while Sister Benedict handled Monsieur Comtois's latest complaint.

After the sisters had disappeared down the path towards the building, Georges leaned back in his chair. He ignored the mild discomfort of the stiff, rough backing and breathed in the scents of flowers and autumn. He had been wrong. He needed gardens and flowers during his recuperation, even if the garden was not his own. He smiled to himself and took another deep, appreciative breath.

"Monsieur Pontmercy?" 

Georges opened his eyes. It was another of the sisters, one of the oldest in the convent, although he did not remember her name. He hid his mild alarm behind a polite smile and said, "Yes, sister?" 

"I am sorry to interrupt you, but we've a favor to ask," the sister said in the brisk, matter-of-fact way he remembered from other encounters. It was only then that he noticed the woman in a wheelchair beside her. 

The woman was young, though perhaps closer to thirty than twenty, with golden hair pulled into a loose braid. Long illness marked her quiet face. Georges, studying her, thought that she had the look of a plant whose bloom has been tattered and half-destroyed by a long storm, a plant which perhaps, with care and time, might bloom beautifully again someday.  

With a start, he realized the sister was speaking. "...and my eyes being not what they were, we hoped you could read a bit of the letter for Madame Fauchelevent." 

"Her letter?" he echoed, and then flushed a little when the sister only looked at him expectantly. The brain-fever had left him with the occasional headache, ones which the doctors hoped might stop in time. Still, he did not see the harm in reading part of a letter so long as he did not strain his eyes. He cleared his throat. "Ah, of course, I would be glad to try." 

"Thank you," said Madame Fauchelevent, the words low and hoarse as though her illness had damaged her voice. She extended the letter to him. "I have read through to 'Today Uncle Ultime taught me how to make a straw mat.' It is the next few sentences I cannot understand." 

Georges took the letter and offered her a small smile that felt awkward and forced. She gazed solemnly back; there was a guarded look in her pale eyes that made him drop his gaze hastily to the missive. 

The letter was written in a childish scrawl. Georges couldn't help but think of Marius's letters, the dictated, reserved sentiments remaining the same even as the handwriting had moved from a boy's uncertain script to a young man's more confident one. His throat tightened, thinking of all the letters he had written that had never reached Marius, all the years that Marius had thought him a worthless father. He hastily forced his attention to the requested task. It took him a moment to decipher the child's writing, especially as the girl's handwriting turned shakier and her spelling more imaginative the more excited she became, though she had regained her composure towards the end and written her name with ladylike care. Once he thought he understood, he began to read the letter aloud. 

" _Today Uncle Ultime had me help make a few straw mats since Uncle Achille's hands were hurting him. Uncle Achille sat and watched. He kept calling the straw mats coats, even when I told him they were mats and that he was being strange. He said they are coats because they will keep the melons warm during the winter. It is a silly thought, but I pictured you in a coat made of straw, staying warm and your cough going away_...." 

Georges couldn't help but smile as he read, charmed by the little girl's cheerful voice and the love present in the letter. She jumped from one topic to another, speaking of another girl at the convent in one sentence and then something one of her uncles had told her in the next. When at last he concluded with, " _Love, your Cosette_ ," he was moved to look up and remark, "You have a charming daughter, madame."

Some of the reservation had left Madame Fauchelevent's face as she had listened to her daughter's words; her eyes were filled with a fierce, tender pride. "Thank you, monsieur," she said. She leaned forward to take the letter back, adding, "And she is so very clever. Would you believe she only learned her letters three years ago?" 

"Truly? She writes so well, I would not have guessed," Georges said. His surprise was unfeigned, for Madame Fauchelevent's Cosette had written very well with so brief an education. "What a clever child!" 

Madame Fauchelevent's expression warmed further, and Georges thought that there might be a hint of a smile upon her lips at the compliment. "Do you have children, monsieur?"

"A son, Marius," Georges said. It was his turn speak proudly, straightening a little in his wheelchair. "He is a student and plans to become a lawyer. That is, if I do not distract him too much from his studies. I am grateful for his visits--"  Here Georges was embarrassed to hear his voice tremble a little as his chest tightened, overcome for a second by tenderness. "--but not at the expense of his education. Still, he will not listen to reason."

"Or perhaps he simply considers you more important, Monsieur Pontmercy," said the sister, gently.

Georges startled a little and blushed, for in truth he had forgotten the sister entirely. He looked half-guiltily at her, and grew even more flustered by the amused look upon her aged face, as though she knew his thoughts.

"You may be right, sister," he muttered, ducking his head. "He is a good boy."

"Is Monsieur Marius visiting today?" the sister asked.

Georges shook his head. "No, he has an exam, but Monsieur Mabeuf may come. He said during his last visit that he expected a letter from his brother about my garden."

"Monsieur Pontmercy's garden is the pride of Vernon, or so his friend M. Mabeuf informed me," the sister said to Madame Fauchelevent, the older woman still wearing that small, amused smile. "He grows flowers and plants that come from as far away as China and America. But you have also invented a few flowers, have you not, monsieur?"

If Georges had thought he blushed before, that was nothing compared to the heat in his cheeks at the sister's words. He didn't know what to do with the question or the compliments; he wished that she had said nothing. He said at last, humbly, "Anyone who has no occupation and enough time might do as much as I, sister. It is true that I have tried my hand at cultivating a few new hybrids, but...." 

"I didn't know you could invent new flowers." 

When Georges dared to look up, it was to tentatively study Madame Fauchelevent's expression. He thought that she might be curious, but perhaps she was only being polite with her remark. He cleared his throat. "Well it is invention of a sort, madame, taking two different varieties and combining them in an attempt to make something new. I have cross-bred a few flowers over the years...."

He paused, still uncertain that she was actually interested. At her small nod, however, he said slowly, "For example, if all goes well, I will see in December if my effort to cross-breed a Lac van Rijn and a Duc van Thol Red and Yellow  has been successful. I hope the flower will be a burgundy flare with a delicate white that shifts pink and ivory towards the edges, but we shall see. I have taken quite a chance, for Duc van Thols are early-blooming and produce small flowers, but the Lac van Rijn blooms mid-spring and its flower is far larger. If the hybrid blooms too late or too early, or the flower is too heavy for the stem, it will die--"

He stopped, aware that he had forgotten himself in his enthusiasm and been moved to sketch out the sizes of the varieties in the air to show the difference. He sank back into his chair and smiled sheepishly. Madame Fauchelevent was not, after all, Monsieur Mabeuf, who would quietly but eagerly discuss flowers for hours, or even Marius, who might listen out of his duty as a son and because he enjoyed seeing Georges enthusiastic. "I am sorry, madame. I did not mean to prattle." 

Madame Fauchelevent said nothing, her expression pensive. Was she trying to imagine the hybrid he had described?

He thought of his journal back in Vernon, in which he had sketched the various flowers in his garden and which, in the very back pages, he had drawn some guesses as to how his various hybrids might look. He wished he could show it to her instead of relying on his faltering speech and fumbling tongue. But then again, perhaps she was merely trying to think of a polite way to change the subject to something more interesting.

"I see you have found some company, Monsieur Pontmercy," said Sister Benedict. When he turned to her in relief, the sister was smiling at him. "Good morning, Madame Fauchelevent, Sister Marie." 

"Good morning, Sister Benedict. We are discussing Monsieur Pontmercy's garden." 

"I see." Sister Benedict's smile widened. "You grow all manner of tulips and dahlias, do you not?"

From the corner of his eye, he watched as Madame Fauchelevent gave a little start, her expression clouding briefly before a small, fixed smile appeared on her face. "Are there many varieties of dahlias, monsieur?" she asked before Georges could answer Sister Benedict.

Georges fidgeted awkwardly with his straw hat. "Perhaps so in Mexico, of which they are native, madame, but dahlias have only been in France since the Jardin des Plantes received some seeds in 1802. Since then many gardeners have attempted to create new varieties."

"I suppose you are one of those gardeners," Sister Marie said.

"Yes, madame," he said. He had been one of the first to successfully create a double-flowered dahlia without purple flowers, but he didn't say so. Even in the privacy of his own mind it felt like a boast. He fiddled with his hat again, running his fingers along the brim, surreptitiously pressing his fingers to his forehead, which had begun to ache from all this conversation.

"The garden here is very nice," he said, quickly, when Sister Marie looked ready to speak again. "And it is late in the season for hollyhock. I wonder if the gardeners did anything special to delay the bloom."

"We can ask," Sister Benedict said.

"Oh no, you do not--"

Sister Marie cut off his weak protest with a cheerful, "If the weather remains this pleasant, perhaps your Cosette can meet you here in the garden the next time she visits, Madame Fauchelevent."

"She would like that very much," Madame Fauchelevent agreed, and actually smiled. It was brief, sudden thing, like a flash of sunlight before it disappears back behind a cloud, and then her expression returned to its previous solemness.

Georges tried to rub at his brow once more without anyone noticing, but Sister Benedict noticed the gesture and frowned. "Is your head bothering you, monsieur? You should have said so."

"It is nothing, sister, just a small headache--"

"The doctor said to put you to bed and have you rest at any sign of a headache," Sister Benedict said firmly. "There will be no relapses on  _my_ watch." She seized the handles of the wheelchair and nodded to Madame Fauchelevent and Sister Marie.

"Good day, Sister Marie," Georges said, resigning himself to another day spent in bed with the curtains drawn. He cast a wistful glance towards the flowers and took in another deep breath before he added, "Good day, Madame Fauchelevent." That seemed too brusque somehow, and he added, feeling sheepish as he did so, "It was a pleasure to hear about your Cosette and-- and to discuss flowers with you."

Madame Fauchelevent's response was equally stiff, but he thought she was sincere. "Thank you, monsieur. I wish you luck with your tulips and your son's education."

Georges smiled at that. The smile lingered even as Sister Benedict turned his wheelchair away from the garden and back towards the hospital. 

 

* * *

 

 

Fantine did not quite know what to make of Monsieur Pontmercy; everything about him invited more questions than answers the longer she thought upon him.

He had been a soldier once. Fantine would have known that even if Sister Marie had not told her, for there was that terrible scar upon his dark face. And yet his scar had not made him seem terrible; there had been too much timidity in his features for him to seem fierce. Curious for an ex-soldier who had once been brave enough to earn a military decoration in the wars; upon his hospital shirt there had been pinned a small, faded yellow ribbon. Then there was the way Monsieur Pontmercy had held himself, braced against his wheelchair as though to apologize for taking up so much space, his shoulders hunched and his hands clutching nervously at the armrests when Sister Marie complimented him. There had been, Fantine thought, something of Valjean's kind meekness in his flustered smile.

She considered him as she and Sister Marie enjoyed the warm fall day, and then dismissed him from her mind. He was strange, certainly, but soon he would be back among his flowers and she would be back at the convent. The memory of his queer appearance and charmed smile as he read Cosette's words aloud, a pleasant look despite the way his cheek was twisted by the long scar, would fade quickly enough. Fantine had no interest in solving the particular puzzle that was some soldier turned gardener, no matter how sincerely he had praised Cosette.

The subsequent Saturday dawned with a chill in the air that made Fantine fret and anxiously study the dull gray clouds outside her window. She hoped it would not rain. She did not want Father Fauchelevent and Cosette walking in the wet, especially since she knew the good man would wrap Cosette up in his coat and carry her over puddles if need be, never mind the pain in his knee or that he was likely to catch a cold.

She sent up a quiet prayer of thanks when the clouds began to clear shortly before breakfast. By the time she had finished her meal and forced down the medicine Sister Marie pressed upon her, the sky was a pale blue. It was not as warm as before, but it would suit with a blanket across her lap. More to the point, her doctor made no objection to her going outside; Sister Marie wheeled her without argument to the garden.

"Mother!" Cosette said as soon as she spotted her.

Cosette released Father Fauchelevent's hand and raced over to Fantine's wheelchair. She skidded to a stop before the chair even as Sister Marie smiled and headed back up the path. Cosette barely stopped herself from leaping into Fantine's lap; she attempted to school her expression into a demure one the sisters insisted befitted a twelve-year-old. She did not succeed, the corner of her mouth twitching in a small smile. 

Fantine bent a little to kiss her brow, smiling at the sight of Cosette's flushed, happy expression. The medicine was helping, but there was no better medicine than the sight of Cosette's beloved features.

Cosette wrapped her arms around Fantine's neck and peered searchingly into her face. "You look better, Mother," she decided after a moment, sounding pleased. Then an achingly familiar anxiousness crept back into her expression. "Do you feel better?"

"Yes," Fantine said immediately. It was even mostly true. The medicine was helping with the cough, though the spells were not gone entirely, and she was sleeping better than she had before. She smiled her most reassuring smile. "Did you have a good walk from the convent?"

The concern cleared from Cosette's face and she giggled a little. She leaned closer and said in a loud, gleeful whisper, scandalized delight in every word, "Uncle Achille got splashed all over with mud by a cab and said a bad word! He made me promise not to tell the nuns, but he did not say I couldn't tell you."

Father Fauchelevent indeed looked mud-stained and apologetic when Fantine glanced over Cosette's head to frown at him. He shrugged sheepishly, color creeping into his cheeks. "Cosette, you might have told her that the driver was all but on the sidewalk, driving like a mad man, and that he deserved the insult. If I did not know better, I would think you  _want_  your mother to scold me!"

Cosette did not look impressed by Father Fauchelevent's excuse or his teasing accusation. She released Fantine in order to put her hand on her hip and purse her lips at Father Fauchelevent. "Uncle Ultime  _never_  says bad words. Not even when that squirrel threw an acorn and hit him in the eye."

Father Fauchelevent made a face at that and muttered something under his breath that Fantine didn't catch. Louder, he said, "Very well, I will wash my mouth out with soap as penance when we are back at the convent. Will that please you, Cosette?" Even as Cosette wrinkled her nose at him, Father Fauchelevent shook his head and smiled, taking a parcel from the basket strapped to his back. "But come, let us discuss other things. Cosette has brought you a present."

"A present?"

But Cosette had turned embarrassed suddenly, looking down at her feet and murmuring, "It is not a very good present."

Fantine studied her hunched shoulders, the worried slant of her lips. Cosette did not often lose her confidence anymore, not with Fantine and her uncles around to raise her spirits, but the uncertainty that she might disappoint her family sometimes brought out the unhappy, timid child rescued from Montfermeil.

"I am certain it is a wonderful present." Fantine reached out and stroked Cosette's hair, putting as much reassurance into her touch as possible. When Cosette still did not look up, Fantine said gently, "May I see it?" A moment later, Cosette pressed the parcel into her hands. When Fantine unwrapped it, she found the gift was a lace collar, embroidered with the stitching of delicate flowers and twigs. She ran her thumb across the embroidery, imagining Cosette's concentration as she worked. "Oh, it's beautiful, Cosette."

"I wanted it to be perfect," Cosette muttered. "The stitching is uneven."

Fantine laughed and stroked her hair once more. "If it is, I did not notice. I love it," she said firmly. "Shall we use this collar for the dress I will wear for Christmas Mass?"

"If you want to." Cosette at last raised her head, a small, uncertain smile on her face. "You really don't  mind the stitching isn't right? Some of the flowers are lopsided, and I couldn't get them right--"

"The flowers are just right," Fantine said firmly. "Look around. Most of these flowers have been damaged or tilted by the wind. Are they perfect or are they real?"

"Oh." Cosette brightened at that, looking around and apparently taking in the rest of the garden for the first time. "You're right. Oh, Mama, look! The flowers are so pretty!" She darted towards one of the nearby bushes, nearly running into a tall young man who stepped hastily out of her way with a startled apology.

"Cosette! Please excuse my daughter, monsieur," Fantine said. She carefully wrapped the collar back into its parcel for safekeeping. 

The young man smiled with an awkwardness that had a trace of familiarity to it though Fantine was certain she had never met him before. He sketched her a quick bow. "I wasn't looking where I was going either, madame. We were both at fault."

"You are polite, monsieur, but  _you_  weren't running," Fantine said, and raised her voice. "Cosette! You owe this gentleman an apology." The effort to speak loudly made her chest ache. She coughed, mostly to ease the sudden tightness in her chest, but even that brief spell had Cosette rushing back to her, wide-eyed with alarm. "I am all right," she said, smiling reassuringly. "Now, the man's apology."

Cosette did not look entirely reassured, but she turned towards the young man and offered him a quick curtsy and a sincere, "I am sorry, monsieur, for almost running into you."

"It is all right," the young man said, looking even more flustered. "There is no harm done--" His expression changed, shifting from embarrassment to a similar look Cosette had worn as she'd all but flung herself into Fantine's lap. The young man restrained himself somewhat better, but he still walked swiftly past Father Fauchelevent and called out eagerly, "Father!"

Somehow when Fantine turned a little in her chair, she was not surprised to find it was Monsieur Pontmercy who was being greeted so. She realized, watching them, that they had the same smile and habit of ducking their head when flustered.

"Monsieur Pontmercy," she said, remembering almost too late to restrain her smile so as not to show her false teeth.

Monsieur Pontmercy tore his gaze away from his son to blink at her, as though startled by the presence of anyone else in the garden except his son. Then he smiled back. "Madame Fauchelevent." His eyes fell upon Cosette and his smile widened. "And this must be your daughter. Good day, mademoiselle."

Cosette blinked uncertainly at him, but nevertheless curtsied and murmured a quiet, "Good day to you, monsieur."  

"Monsieur Pontmercy was kind enough to read your letter to me when Sister Marie's eyes pained her," Fantine explained.

Cosette immediately brightened. "Oh, the nice gentleman! Thank you, monsieur."

"Come sit down, father," Fantine said quietly to Father Fauchelevent, gesturing towards the nearby bench. "How is your knee today?"

Father Fauchelevent waved a dismissive hand as though to say his knee was the same as always even as he limped over to the bench and settled down carefully upon it. His lips twisted into a contrite frown. "I didn't mean to swear in front of Cosette, but the man nearly ran me over," he said, half-apology, half-explanation. He looked ruefully at his mud-splattered trousers. "I am just thankful Cosette was out of range."

"And what is that flower, monsieur?"

"Hollyhock," Monsieur Pontmercy explained. When Fantine looked up, he was smiling down at Cosette, wearing the same awkward smile that touched his son's face as the young man hovered shyly beside his father's wheelchair. "It is late this year. Usually it blooms much earlier, though anywhere from July to October."

"Cosette, I am certain Monsieur Pontmercy wishes to speak to his son, not answer your questions," Fantine said, remembering the catch in his voice as he had spoken of his son, as though every visit was precious to him. "If you are curious about the flowers, perhaps we can ask one of the gardeners." 

"It is no trouble, madame," Monsieur Pontmercy said, but Cosette was already looking apologetic.

"Thank you very much for answering my questions, monsieur," she said, and Fantine felt her chest tighten with pride as Cosette offered both Monsieur Pontmercy and his son a very pretty curtsy.

Then Cosette hesitated, her gaze darting towards her mother and then back towards Monsieur Pontmercy. Fantine couldn't make sense of her expression, which suddenly seemed a mixture of determination and uncertainty. In the next instant she had stepped closer to Monsieur Pontmercy's wheelchair. The movement left Fantine without a clear view of their faces, and she was too far away to hear whatever Cosette murmured to the gentleman. 

"Cosette," she called, a little sharply, but Cosette was already turning and darting back over to her, her strange expression replaced by her usual bright smile. Fantine exchanged a look with Father Fauchelevent, who looked amused but only shrugged, apparently having not heard the last part of the conversation either. "Cosette, what did you say to Monsieur Pontmercy just now?" 

But apparently Cosette had chosen this particular moment to go deaf, blinking at Fantine with a too-innocent look and saying, "Mother, Uncle Ultime sent a gift too, and a letter. Has Uncle Achille shown you?" 

Fantine frowned at Cosette's unusual evasion, unable to guess what Cosette might have said that she wouldn't want to admit to. She glanced over at Monsieur Pontmercy to see if he could provide any answers. But Monsieur Pontmercy was in the middle of asking his son how his studies were going, his face turned up towards the boy like a flower seeking the sun. She hesitated another second longer, studying him, but Monsieur Pontmercy didn't seem bothered by whatever Cosette had whispered to him.

She gave a little shake of her head and dismissed the matter. Perhaps Cosette had asked Monsieur Pontmercy to answer a few more of her questions once his son was gone. "No, he has not," she said, turning her attention at last to Cosette's query. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as Cosette turned an expectant look upon Father Fauchelevent.

Father Fauchelevent chuckled. "Now, do not eat all of them at once," he said, and took off his basket, opening it up to reveal more pears than Fantine could have eaten in a week. "Though I admit it is a great temptation. Cosette and I had to keep an eye on each other to avoid eating them all on our way here."

Cosette laughed. "We shared one," she admitted. "But you should have the rest, Mother!" 

Fantine's throat tightened at the smiles upon Father Fauchelevent and Cosette's faces and at the thought of Valjean harvesting the pears and carefully setting aside some of the best for her. She chose one of the pears with trembling fingers. It was a moment before she could speak. "Thank you," she said, and then bit into the fruit.

The juice dripped from the corners of her mouth despite her care; she laughed at herself and cupped her hand under her chin even as Cosette smothered a giggle behind her hands. "This is the best pear I have ever had," she declared. "Ultime must have taken them off the trees and sent you straight here." 

"Mother," Cosette said, laughing. 

Fantine took another bite and gave up on looking presentable as the juice continued to stain her fingers. "But come, you both should have another. I could never eat this many, not even in a week," she said, and then hesitated. Her gaze strayed once more to Monsieur Pontmercy, who was smiling at something his son had said. He seemed taller when his son was here, she thought, or perhaps it was simply that he hunched less in his chair. "And perhaps we should offer Monsieur Pontmercy and his son pears as well."   

Cosette snatched up two pears and walked back across the path. "Excuse me, messieurs, but we are having some pears and thought you might like some," she said, offering them up with a smile. 

A flush appeared upon Monsieur Pontmercy's dark cheeks. "Thank you, but they are yours, we do not-- that is--" He trailed off, looking uncertain. 

"Mother says we have more pears than she could eat in a week," Cosette said coaxingly, the pears still outstretched. "And we shouldn't waste them. Please, monsieur?"

"Very well," Monsieur Pontmercy said, relenting. His gaze rose from Cosette to meet Fantine's, and he offered her a small smile, the uncertainty lingering in the small twist of his lips but his voice soft with gratitude. "Thank you, madame." 

Fantine found herself unaccountably flustered. They were only pears, nothing remarkable. There was no reason for him to look so startled and pleased. She nodded, a stiff, awkward movement, and turned her half-eaten pear over in her hands. She ran her thumb along the soft, unbroken skin and was glad when Monsieur Pontmercy accepted a pear and looked away. 

She turned towards Father Fauchelevent and found him watching her with a small smile upon his face, as though he was amused by something. She cleared her throat. "But you are not eating a pear, Father Fauchelevent," she scolded, and tapped the brim of the basket with one hand. "I truly cannot eat this many even if I wish to. Please, have one." 

Father Fauchelevent took one, still smiling. "So," he said, leaning in and lowering his voice to a confiding whisper. Again Fantine felt unaccountably flustered, her breath catching in her throat, her shoulders tensing, but Father Fauchelevent said only, "You must tell me of M. Comtois's latest outrage. Was it the food today, or was the sun shining too brightly through his window?" 

Fantine laughed despite herself, the strange tension easing. "You, monsieur, are a terrible gossip," she said. "I should not encourage you." She and Father Fauchelevent exchanged smiles, and then she leaned back in her wheelchair. "Well, yesterday it was his pillow...."

Cosette returned, perching upon the edge of the bench so that she sat comfortably between Father Fauchelevent and Fantine's wheelchair. She selected a pear and began to eat as Fantine continued to tell of Monsieur Comtois's list of complaints. Her small, still-thin face was filled with a contentment that Fantine felt in her chest, a warm happiness that dispelled some of the ache that the medicine had not yet fully banished. 

She paused in the story to lean over and press a kiss to Cosette's brow, smiling when Cosette squirmed and pulled away. "Mother! Now my forehead is sticky!" 

Fantine assumed a contrite look. "I am sorry," she said solemnly, and then kissed Cosette again. 

Cosette let out a quiet shriek of mock-dismay. She discarded all the airs and manners that the nuns had instilled in her, flinging her arms around Fantine's neck and kissing her cheek in retaliation. When Father Fauchelevent laughed, Cosette turned towards him with a gleam in her eyes. 

"Ah, no, do not--" Father Fauchelevent said, raising his hands to ward her off, but Cosette clasped him around the neck and kissed his cheek as well as he flushed and tried to hide his pleasure at Cosette's easy affection.

Fantine felt the press of a gaze upon her. When she looked up, it was in time to see Monsieur Pontmercy turning hastily back towards his son, holding up his half-eaten pear from which a few seeds could be seen peeking from the core and beginning some sort of explanation. She watched for a moment, but he did not look back. She turned back to Cosette and Father Fauchelevent. "But come, tell me about the convent. We shall save Monsieur Comtois for later. Cosette, is Constance still struggling with her arithmetic?"

"Oh no. I told Uncle Ultime about it, and he taught me a trick to show Constance, and now she understands it!" Cosette leaned a little against the arm of Fantine's chair, speaking of the convent between bites of her pear. 

Fantine welcomed the light press of Cosette's arm against hers, her cheek upon Fantine's shoulder. She ate the rest of her fruit, Cosette's sweet voice washing over her, and was for the moment content. 

**Author's Note:**

> Your flower fact of the chapter: The [tulipa keizerskroon](http://www.vanengelen.com/flower-bulbs-index/tulips/single-early/tulip-keizerskroon.html%20) is a breed of tulip also known as "Emperor's Crown" that was created in 1750. It is planted in October and blooms in April. I figure that Georges would probably be attached to it for its name alone. Plus, it's a gorgeous flower.


End file.
